There’s always a circle
which no theory talks about
it doesn’t disrupt my
everyday functioning
for I’m still gliding through to do
what I have to do
like an unworn skate
on a slant surface
of both pleasure and pain
and if I glide through for long
the dose of regularity will
prevent all my palpitations,
I know,
except in that accidental moment
when those half-internalised tunes
flow in the background
carrying the scent of
Urbino’s bitter almonds,
I become aware of the circle
and palpitations resurface
I am an empty flat in some
suburban part of town
where noises are always heard
from the unfamiliar outside
while a nauseating silence lingers inside
compressing the air too hard to bare
I want to shit out memories
Do you see now?
sounds, smell and shit
always in a circle
revealing the lie of
gliding like a skate
but even if I know that you see it
there’s hardly any solace in this state.
